


The Best of All Instructors

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-05
Updated: 2011-05-05
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean teaches Cas to shoot, Cas teaches Dean something entirely different</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best of All Instructors

**Author's Note:**

> the prompt "I know" on my prompt table and inspired by some brilliant comments on [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/ontd_spnparty/profile)[**ontd_spnparty**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/ontd_spnparty/) about the things Dean would have to teach Cas if he ever turned human.

The first time Dean went shooting, he proven to be a natural with a gun, bulls-eyed every single target his dad put in front of him without the slightest hesitation. It wasn’t the best natural talent in the world, but it was pretty much the only one he’d had, and he’d made the best of it.

He doubted very much that Cas was going to have that talent, from the way he was watching Dean line up the bottles along the fence in a mixture of curiosity, terror and vague annoyance. Then again, that look had become pretty standard for Cas these days, ever since he’d dropped into humanity like a plane falling out of the sky.

Dean couldn't exactly blame the guy - the learning curve had to be pretty damn steep, and Cas was intolerant of human bullshit at the best of times. Dean was willing to give him a pass on a lot of things – the big, complicated things like learning to drive or how to operate Sam's crazy new iPad - but shooting, that was basic, something Cas had to learn unless he wanted to be relegated to KP duty at Bobby's for the rest of his newly mortal life.

Dean finished setting up the last of the targets and walked back to where he'd left Cas standing perplexed and irritated in the high grass, pulling his favourite 9mm out of the back of his jeans.

"Okay, first lesson." He held the gun out to Cas, but batted his hand away when he tried to reach for it, "See the red dot? That means the safety's off – means you're primed to shoot someone or something. On or off, you never, _never_ point a gun at anything you're not prepared to shoot – that clear?"

Cas gave him a _I am a creature of unfathomable eons, don't treat me like a child_ sort of look, but said, "Yes," and Dean tried to ignore the fact that he had just given a former angel of the Lord pretty much the same speech his dad had given him the first time he'd been handed a gun.

You could never go wrong with the classics, anyway.

“Alright,” he passed the gun over to Cas, ignoring the slight trickle of dread down the back of his spine, “let’s see what you can do.”

Cas lifted his hand and Dean resisted the urge to duck for cover.

“Woah –woah!”

“What?” Cas demanded, irritably, and Dean side-stepped around behind when Cas tried to turn towards him.

“It’s not a club, dude, and you’re not Rambo – you can’t hold it like that.”

“Why not?” Cas wasn’t asking out of curiosity; he was saying _I dare you to try and stop me_.

“Because, seriously, the thing’s going to recoil and smack you in the teeth – the whole one-handed-sideways hero crap is dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. Both hands on the wheel.”

“It’s a gun, Dean.”

“Both hands on the gun, then,” Dean forced back a sigh, “for now – please?”

Cas did that sulky, deflating thing with his shoulders that was basically a full-body eye roll and brought his other hand up to take hold of the gun.

“Okay, good,” Dean was still staying clear of the muzzle, however. Cas’ temper was the only thing with a finer trigger than the gun. “Now, put your thumb – yeah this thumb under here – make sure it’s pointing straight ahead, towards the target.”

“I’ll drop it,” Cas protested – although it sounded less like an actual protest and more like he was pointing out Dean’s obvious stupidity, which Dean was so used to already it was actually kind of sad. For someone who had all of a solid month of experience being human, Cas thought he knew a hell of a lot more than Dean did on the subject.

Dean sucked his lower lip between his teeth and chewed it once before letting it go. "Remember when you promised to trust me on learning on this being human stuff?"

"That was before the super-glue incident." Cas dead-panned, still sighting down the barrel of the gun.

"Hey! Sam was as much to blame for that one as me."

"Was he? I really don't know if I can trust you ever again."

Dean snorted, "Oh that's _rich_..." and took a deep breath in preparation for a bout of ranting, when he noticed the crow's feet at the corners of Cas' eyes.

"Bastard. Don't laugh at me while you're holding a gun, it might go off."

"I'm not laughing, Dean."

"Just shoot already."

The gun went off with a sudden crack, and Dean inhaled the acrid scent of burnt gunpowder as he watched Cas' shot go high and miss the line of targets entirely before imbedding itself in a tree with a dull _thunk_. Dean bit the inside of his cheek as Cas' eyes narrowed into tiny slits of righteous fury and he glared at the gun like it had personally offended him.

"Did you..." Dean coughed awkwardly once to try and dislodge the laughter from his throat, but it wasn't going anywhere. "Did you point your thumb?"

Cas dropped his aim and turned his head ever-so-slightly away from Dean - busted.

"Alright - lesson 2: Recoil." Dean stepped around Cas again and took up the hand that was holding the gun, manually adjusting the position of Cas' thumb. "You want as little space between your hand and the gun as possible. That's why you grip it like this."

He drew out Cas' arm, and Cas automatically brought his other hand up to position. Dean nodded approvingly, trailing his palms along Cas' arms, adjusting the lock of his elbow. Cas looked smaller in a T-shirt and jeans than he'd ever looked in his holy tax accountant get-up, except for in those first moments after he'd given up his grace, when he'd looked shell-shocked and so tiny – just another speck in a big universe.

The night after the big showdown, safe back at Bobby's until the next catastrophe, Dean had caught Cas staring at himself in Bobby's bathroom mirror, like he was overwhelmed by what he'd become. He'd helped Cas out of the wreck of his clothes, into a pair of hand-me-down sweats, and then into Bobby's guest bed.

They hadn't stopped sharing the damn thing since.

"Okay, give it another go."

Cas squeezed the trigger. This time he was better prepared for the jump of the gun and his shot didn't go too high, but it wasn't a bulls-eye either - it took the neck off an empty whiskey bottle and knocked the remains back into the grass.

"Not bad," Dean nodded, diffusing Cas' frustration. The guy got frustrated way too easily – a side-effect of being an all-power being for so damn long, probably. "But it could be better."

He knocked Cas’ feet apart, adjusted the slant of his shoulders, the square of his hips, smoothed a hand down the length of his spine and rubbed his knuckles against the small of Cas’ back.

“Relax,” he moved his arms over Cas’, down to where they gripped the gun, then back up over his shoulders, then adjusted the subtle tilt of his head. “Breathe out as you squeeze the trigger and make sure you keep both your eyes open.”

Cas didn’t manage to do any of those things – in fact, he did almost exactly the opposite, tensing up and taking short, light breaths.

Dean huffed out a soft laugh against the side of his neck, “Dude, seriously? I thought we’d gotten over this after the whole shaving thing.”

“I can’t be expected to control this body’s impulses with so little practical experience...”

Dean nuzzled the space underneath Cas’ ear, watched the way his aim waivered. “That excuse didn’t work the first time, what makes you think it’ll work now?”

Cas tried door number two, “If you had informed me about sex sooner I would be bored of it by now.”

Dean laughed, “Are you kidding me? Hey man, I _tried_ , remember? And anyway, sex isn’t something you get bored of,” he pushed his hand up under Cas’ shirt, palm splayed flat across his stomach and felt him breathing in and out in uneven little huffs. “At least not with me. Tell you what – bulls-eye one, just one, of the next three shots and I’ll give you a prize.”

“What kind of prize?”

“You’ll have to hit a bulls-eye to find out.”

Cas took a deep breath, steadied his aim, and – _bam bam bam_ – hit three bottles in a row, dead on.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean laughed, grabbing the gun from his hand, thumbing the safety on and dropping it to the ground, “You’ve been holding out on me!”

“Beginner’s luck?” Cas tried, totally unconvincing considering that when Dean spun him around he was grinning, bright and fucking huge. Dean bit at the wet swell of his lower lip as Cas’ fingers popped the button on the front of his jeans with way too much skill.

“Fuck your luck, then.”

“And fuck your human bullshit,” Cas countered, pushing his hand inside Dean’s boxers. His hand was sweaty-smooth from gripping the barrel of the gun and it was so good it made Dean cross-eyed. Cas hooked a foot around his ankle and pushed him down into the grass, which was pretty juvenile, but hey – they were meant to be adding as many things to list of Cas’ human experiences as possible – so he buried his face in Cas’ neck and arched up into his hand, grabbing the hem of his shirt and hauling it up under his armpits so he could rake his nails down Cas’ back. Kissing Cas was like standing in the path of an avalanche – that same wild, breathless abandon, the same sheer panic – but damn, Dean loved it, he could have kissed him forever if not for the hand on his cock, sending slow, maddening waves of pleasure up through his stomach and into his chest. He palmed Cas’ ass, then used his waistband to guide his fingers around to where he could pull the button open and the zipper down and get his hand around Cas just the same and taste the groan that escaped Cas’ lips.

Cas still lacked precision, but he was voracious, and he hadn’t lost any of that crazy determination that had got him through the war – he wanted Dean to come apart, and that was just what Dean was going to do, so help him. He got just the right twist and the right grip, rubbing over the tip to slick his palm with the moisture there, and Dean could barely breathe, forget about keeping up; and he unravelled way too fast, messing up his shirt and spattering Cas’ stomach with his come. Their kisses slowed to slippery, languorous meetings of lips and tongue as Cas kept rocking into his hand, bracing himself with both hands in the loose-packed dirt and muttering something that might have been another language or just a useless string of syllables against Dean’s ear.

“Don’t hold out on me Cas,” the stubble of Cas’ cheek scraped over his lips, “you’re not supposed to do that anymore.”

“Dean...” A few quick stutters of his hips, a barely-there moan, and Cas was gone, come spilling warm and wet all over the lowest part of Dean’s stomach as Cas pressed his face into Dean’s shoulder like he was planning to burrow through the skin.

They were still for a few minutes, just resting in the warm sun, getting their breath back. Dean could smell his shampoo in Cas’ hair mixed with the cool sharpness of the grass crushed underneath his back, and he closed his eyes, inhaling the scent and committing it to memory.

“So...” he asked when Cas started to stir, getting that twitchy restlessness about him that happened now whenever he tried to stay still too long – like there was too much to do in too short a time and he couldn’t bear to waste a second. “When did you learn to shoot?”

“Two weeks ago,” Cas confessed, “when you had the flu, Sam brought me out here to keep me from...hovering over your bedside.”

Of course, the jerk. Dean was supposed to be teaching Cas all the human stuff. “So why were you playing dumb, then?”

Cas lifted his head and stared at Dean. He looked a little like he might resent Dean saying that he would even _play_ at being dumb; but all he said was, “Dean.”

“Oh,” Dean didn’t bother to try and put the brakes on the grin that crawled across his face. “Yeah, alright, I get it.”

He slipped his leg around behind Cas’ knee and flipped them over, going in for another kiss.

-End-


End file.
